


Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain

by themastersbeard



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3x04, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-3x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themastersbeard/pseuds/themastersbeard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott is amiable and understanding. He offers up fleece sweaters and flannel pants wordlessly. He seems perpetually at the brink of begging an explanation, but each time he opens his mouth, he seems to fall short. Isaac welcomes this small ineptitude with open arms.</p><p>A post-3x04 fic that I managed to scrabble together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain

 

  
_Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain_  
_On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me_  
_Remembering again that I shall die_  
_And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks_  
_For washing me cleaner than I have been_  
_Since I was born into this solitude.  
_

 

*

He flees, as he has always done. As he will always do. His grandiose bravado deserting him in all situations beyond those that matter least. _You should have stayed, you should have stayed and grovelled like the dog you are_ , the voice says. And he agrees.

Outside the rain falls in sleets, pooling in the crevices of the pavement and within moments seeping into the seams of his shoes. The slick cars rush by at cautious speeds. None stop. Thus he walks, aimlessly and solitary. Chill rain soaks through the wool of his sweater at hasty speed, it clings to him until it becomes unbearable. He is forced to shed it despite the chill that begins to settle into his bones. The cold grips his fingers until they become useless, unfeeling and clumsy and the grip on his bag teeters between tenuous and resolute.

He plots his course without much consideration. The sensible thing to do would be to run, but lifting his legs has grown more difficult, they chain him down like a weight. He feels it in the growing tightness of his chest, each breath is forcefully pushed into his lungs, painful expansions which do not even begin to fulfill the burning desire for air. So he takes the foolish course in the matter, and walks. And he feels so unbelievably ashamed.

He knows himself to be a burden but lacks the courage to even consider braving the night out or running away. He flees from change, and it is this absurd ceaseless flight which forces everyone away. But alone is what he fears most, and thus he finds himself clinging to anyone who dare venture too near. He makes vows, he makes dozens, but when he glimpses their faces, they become harder and harder to keep.

When he reaches Scott’s street, he is flooded with apprehension and the dawning of realisation. _You’re a nuisance_ , the voice says. And he knows it to be true. He has retraced his steps halfway back to Derek’s and the home that is no longer a home before the yearning and desperation succeed in their battle and destroy any semblance of rationality that he might once have possessed. So he makes his way back, and then, without any preconceived thought, finds himself twisting the worn doorknob and letting himself into the darkened house, all the while apologising silently for being so incredibly weak.

He knocks on Scott’s door and finds himself stumbling over half-thought words. The room is warm and the cold in his bones has settled a numbness into his heart. If only it could do the same to the fleeting thoughts which form an unremitting barrage at the parapets of his conscience. Dimly he is aware that tomorrow is going to be one of what he terms his ‘bad days’.

Scott is amiable and understanding. He offers up fleece sweaters and flannel pants wordlessly. He seems perpetually at the brink of begging an explanation, but each time he opens his mouth, he seems to fall short. Isaac welcomes this small ineptitude with open arms. The shame of his own inability to control his behavior, and the ruin it has wreaked upon his life scalds him. The thought of giving voice to his failures causes his throat to tighten. Anxiety thrums to every crevice of his being until he is shaking uncontrollably. Scott notices, but says nothing.

 

*

  
_Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:_  
_But here I pray that none whom once I loved_  
_Is dying to-night or lying still awake_

*

When his mother knocks on his door, Scott excuses himself. There are muted words exchanged in the hallway, and no further questions are asked on either part. Scott merely clamps a hand down on his shoulder, gives him a small lopsided smile and tells him that _it’s cool, my mom is okay with you staying, but brace yourself, she might attempt to make scrambled eggs for breakfast. You do not even want to know how they turned out the last time..._

He nods mutely in response. A sense of disbelief muddles his senses. It does not dissipate even as a sleeping bag is pulled out. He begs to be the one to take it, the feeling of intrusion only growing as Scott tells him _not to be stupid_ , and to take the bed. It near brings tears of frustration to his eyes as he finds himself unable to give voice to the feelings of guilt, feelings which are made worse by the bed. By the sense that he is taking advantage of the compassion of others.

Scott settles himself firmly in the sleeping bag and calls out loudly to say _I’m not moving, if that’s what you’re thinking_. And Isaac could fight, he could, but he doesn’t. Exhaustion and the shaking of his tired limbs beat down all sense of argument. So he folds himself into the rumpled sheets that smell like Scott and tries to quell the overflowing thoughts. Scott’s quiet breathing from across the room only makes him more sick of himself. _Would they really like you, if they knew what you’re truly like? When they know how you deceive others, just as you once deceived your father. When they find out how so very angry you are. How so very much like your father? And maybe, didn’t you deserve it? Hasn’t everyone shoved you away, eventually, after all? He was the only one who stayed. And you ran. And he died._

He ends up crying, quietly at first, until the mucous puts a stopper to all breathing involving his nose, and he’s forced to take gulping shallow breaths through his mouth. There’s pain in his chest and he recognises as if from afar that he’s having a panic attack. He’s hiccuping stupidly and he can feel his palms become slickened with sweat as he forces himself into sitting position and covers his face with his hands. He’s embarrassed- ashamed, and it only intensifies when Scott is immediately at his side, hand on his shoulder and whispering to him over and over that _it’ll be okay, man_. And _Isaac, Isaac, Isaac_.

He wants to believe him, desperately and unconditionally because he trusts him more than anyone else he’s ever known. But he is afraid, and he thinks that Scott is sorely wrong. It won’t be alright, and it probably won’t be ever again. It doesn’t stop him from leaning into his touch, because more than anything, he yearns for love and understanding. The breaths start to come easier. Outside the rain still falls.

_Isaac, Isaac, Isaac._

 

*

  
_Solitary, listening to the rain,_  
_Either in pain or thus in sympathy_  
_Helpless among the living and the dead,_  
_Like a cold water among broken reeds,_  
_Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,_  
_Like me who have no love which this wild rain_  
_Has not dissolved except the love of death,_  
_If love it be towards what is perfect and_  
_Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint._  
\- Edward Thomas, January 1916  
“Rain”


End file.
